The Fall of Dumah
by WillieHewes
Summary: Set not long before Raziel's return from the underworld. This is different to my usual stuff, cause it's a cooperative fic from me and IamtheDave. Dark and depressing, in case you needed a little more of that. [Ch2 up]
1. Default Chapter

Author's Notes: This is a co-operative story from me and my boyfriend, Dave. This, the first chapter, is from his hand. Please review, if you feel kind. The next story will be from me again, and should be up soon.

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THE FALL OF DUMAH   
  
How times had changed this place. The Sanctuary of the Clans, once and always the symbol of The Empire, spoke volumes about its state; a rotting corpse that bore just enough vestiges of former glory to offer painful mockery to those who remembered its greater days.   
  
The gatehouse, once a portal in and out of the 'Sanctuary' was now a silent lock, a stoic portcullis that denied all from the tattered remains held within; the mechanism which opened the portcullis had long since been destroyed by Kain's own claws. If one were to somehow pass the gatehouse's dilapidated, sunken shape, stepping around and over the fallen blocks of masonry that had been forced out of the structure by growing mold, and then contravened the heavy, rust-pitted darkness of the iron portcullis, then one would step out into the smaller courtyard within. One could walk with unsure feet across the moss-infected, arching walkway that dissected the shallow pools of stagnant, lifeless water, which now played host to the tarnished silver fencing that had once protected the vampires who walked this path. And finally, one might come to the still-standing, gilded double doors which led to the once-proud throneroom of the Lord of Nosgoth.   
  
Here the rain fell, unchecked by the cracked and broken dome, and ran in rivulets through the inch-deep crannies which pitted the stone tiles surrounding the central dais. Its yellowed marble bore a mass of dust and dirt that the naked skies had angrily spat upon it, as if in defiance of the one who had ruined them so long ago. The deep, runic engravings upon the marble were now muddied and indistinct, the places once occupied by the six lieutenants of the empire marked only by twelve large rocks, placed there in deliberate mockery. Beyond the dais, the circle of surrounding pillars meekly hid six faded flags which bore turgid mockeries of the symbols of the once-proud vampire clans of the empire, while the engravings on the wall saw their bold lines and clefts rendered thick with dirt and spider webs. The pillars, once able to inspire awe in even the coldest heart, now seemed tired and defeated, no longer glad to serve in some small way a master, but weeping and fading into dust; sinking into the muck and mire which surrounded them.   
  
And yet, there was one part of the room which seemed untouched by age and the tear of the elements. One segment of the whole which remained a proud memory of the magnificence of the passing age. The throne of the empire. Kain's throne. It stood still in its granite enormity, awaiting stoically for its lord and master to sit in straight-backed magnificence upon it. The resin, now exposed to the threatening darkness of the sky above, seemed to take on a honeyed glaze. It was as if the throne gazed smugly upon the sky, one of the first and lesser works of its maker, and was proud to look up at it, and would not deign to be diminished by its insignificant wrath. The rain which poured down ran harmlessly through the patterns and symbols which had been painstakingly etched into the surface, the grit which the droplets bore carried with them, as the throne refused to offer it sanctuary. Around it, the four claw-like appendages were tightened still as if about to grasp and crush whomever sat upon the stone seat, for the one who had seen it carved would see no peace even in his seat of power.   
  
He passed the gatehouse with ease. He slipped in mist through the somber portcullis, and walked with firm strides across the arched walkway. He opened the double doors of his throneroom with a single, firm thrust of his clawed foot.   
  
Kain was the only one who came here, now, the only one who _could_ come here now. Had his eyes not been so rudely opened within the last centuries, then perhaps he would have been grieved to harbour that knowledge. But now, as then, there were larger issues prominent in the thoughts of the Lord of Nosgoth than the state of his empire.   
  
Kain settled into his throne, resting the point of the Soul Reaver beside his foot and clasping the hilt by the tip, as if it were a walking cane, perhaps. For a time he sat, silent and motionless, staring off into the distance, his thoughts moving slowly through intricate revolutions, until a slight frown creased his regal brow. His neck arched, and turned his gaze down to his left hand, which lay across the arm of his throne. He slowly turned his hand over, petalling back his three fingers one at a time, to reveal one of the last articles of a distant and all-but forgotten age.   
  
In his palm was a coin, dustless yet worn almost clean of detail through the passing of time and the scrape of claw on metal. It was a bronze piece, defunct even in the time in which he had found it, in his eyes a perfect symbol of the pathetic kingdom of Willendorf with its sycophantic court and weak-kneed King, the man Kain himself had witnessed brought to weeping ruin by the plight of a single human female.   
  
He had kept this coin as a reminder, through all these ages. As a man of the house of Coorhagen, he had given his loyalty to the throne of Willendorf. As a vampire he had saved it and destroyed it, and both with ease. The coin had been an example to him, an example of everything _his_ Kingdom, _his_ Empire, would not be. But now his face crinkled into an ironic smile as history twisted beneath him to give another edge to his thoughts, for now this coin had found a meaning for both its sides. On the one side there lay his past, a litany of things he would not be and things he had no choice but to become. On the other there was his future, a snarl-inducing, melodramatic tragedy played out in the theatre of history by the arrogant puppetmasters that had made his life and destiny into their plaything.   
  
And now, the latest scene was to be played out in this, the penultimate act of _their_ play. The fall of Dumah.   
  
The past centuries had been an unending string of humiliations and meek capitulations for him, as he was forced consistently into playing roles he found distasteful, all of which were a prelude to a greater plan, a slim possibility born from a moment of the purest madness. A plan to change his destiny once more, as it had been changed by another so many years ago.   
  
It had all begun with his discovery of Moebius' chronoplast chamber, with his years of patient study of the secrets therein, with the unending thought he had put into the implications that only a fool would have missed. All of that study had dragged him irrevocably to that one, fateful day, to the beginning of this act of the play. To the destruction of his greatest lieutenant, his right hand. To the destruction of Raziel. His gaze shifted from the coin to the Soul Reaver, and he let out a cynical laugh which echoed into the night, before he leant back in his throne, pressing his back against the wet stone. So far, he had played his role to their satisfaction; about that he held no illusions.   
  
But now, knowing that the true dawn of his plan was coming to be, that the coming scene was the last which would usher in his chance, his slim opportunity for true destiny; he faltered. It was not in his nature to do so, and he found the thoughts which caused him to pause to be distasteful in the extreme. And yet, they were undeniable in their intensity, and the purity of their being. How could he so blindly trust a device of Moebius, of his worst enemy? How could he be sure that he had not been lied to yet again, all as a bigger part of his eventual, humiliating downfall? He could not. And so he had come to a decision, a test to determine the veracity of the information he had been relying upon for so long: He would attempt to change destiny.   
  
In the chronoplast chamber, he had witnessed the events which were to occur in the coming days. Dumah's fall was to come from the most ironic source of all, to the humans who now cowered in their well defended citadel, the very one he had wandered many a time, disguising himself as one of them with ease, enjoying their arrogant pride and belief in their newfound invincibility. It was gratifying to know that when his empire was reduced to ashes, those that might live to inherit it had learned nothing from the past, whether it be their own or that of his making. That fact alone told him that he had committed no great sins against the human sheep over the past millenium, and that Vorador, that arrogant personification of all that Kain had once thought wrong with vampirism, had been right all along. Idly, Kain wondered if Vorador would have been proud to witness the rise of the empire. One claw touched the ring of teeth and blood that hung from his left earlobe, the last evidence of Vorador's existence, and the smallest example of Kain's defiance. It, like it's one time owner, should have been lost in the now erased termagent forest long ago.   
  
But there was also something he had _not_ witnessed in the chronoplast chamber. He had not witnessed himself arriving to warn Dumah of the coming danger. And that was a scene he intended to insert into history's carefully choreographed play. It was time to test the mettle of his enemy.   
  
He rose from the throne, and became aware for the first time of the intensity of the rain, as it fell from his body in a wash, having collected in the clefts of his hard skin and the folds of his cloak. The sound, so insistent, had seemed so quiet to his thought-dimmed senses. Now it pounded with child-like anger, thrashing down to pool on the broken floor of the throne room and slowly wear deeper the cracks it had already made. But it was not important. The rain, once uncomfortable to him, was of no concern now. It could harm his works, but it could not harm him. That role was reserved for another.   
  
He returned the coin of Willendorf to its hidden pocket, and the Soul Reaver to its place on his broad and powerful back, then dissolved his form into a cloud of bats and flitted off through the shattered dome of the roof.   
  
Beneath him, unaware of how unimportant it truly was, the throne stood on, proud and arrogant; the last untarnished symbol of the empire. 


	2. The Citadel

THE CITADEL   
  
They opened the door and shoved her inside as if she was some kind of prisoner. Furious, she shook their filthy hands from her body and looked around. The room was spacious, lavishly furnished, by human standards, anyway. A long, heavy wooden desk dominated the room; behind it, on an equally heavy wooden chair was a small man with short, dark hair and an unpleasantly wide, wet mouth.   
  
"So, there you are," he said, and smiled at her.   
  
She stared at him blankly. Was this 'lord Titus'? She could hardly believe it.   
  
"Don't you think you should bow, my dear?" he asked, his voice still friendly.   
  
"Why?" she asked. "You are just a man."   
  
"And you're just a woman," he said, getting up out of his chair and walking around the table towards her. "One who finds herself in my domain, and, unless I'm mistaken, at my mercy."   
  
She snorted. "I have spent five years inside the walls of Dumah's city," she said in a condescending tone. "Do you really think you can intimidate me?"   
  
"Evidently not," Titus said, his smile fading into an unpleasant sneer. "I've heard all about your daring escape," he changed the subject, "a most impressive fable. Did you really escape all by yourself?"   
  
"Me and another girl," she corrected him. "As I told these men, we climbed the wall when we were unwatched, during the day, and escaped over a mountain path the vampires aren't aware of. Well," she admitted, "it isn't much of a path. My friend fell and was wounded. I had to leave her behind, unfortunately." The regret did not show, either in the tone of her voice or the look on her face.   
  
"And now you're here to tell me to march on the Dumahim city, is that correct?" he asked, sitting down behind his desk again and glancing at the papers in front of him as if she was of little interest to him.   
  
"You could," she said reservedly. "With the men you have here, and the path I would show you, you could wipe them out. Open the gate from the inside and storm them. Free the slaves. End it all."   
  
He looked up.   
  
"I'm not telling you to do anything," she said cynically. "I'm just pointing out a strategic option."   
  
"A strategic option," he said, amused, and looked at the two men that had brought her in. "Excellent. I will discuss it with my master strategist next time we meet. Could you perhaps go into a little more detail about your escape? At present I'm more inclined to believe they let you go, and you are here to lure us into a trap."   
  
"Don't flatter yourself," she sneered. "They wouldn't consider you worthy of a second glance. They are far too preoccupied with their internal warfare. In two weeks' time, they have a celebration. A festival. They feed brandy to the slaves until they can barely stand, and feast on their blood. Then they spend the rest of the night insulting each other in creative ways. By the morning, half of them are wounded or too drunk to stand. The path through the mountains leads to the top of the north city wall. I can also show you the mechanism by which the gate is opened. It is hard to reach, but easy to defend. You could open the door from the inside, and storm the city." She smiled sweetly all of a sudden, although her eyes remained hard. "Or so I would think. But of course, a girl like me has little understanding of these things."   
  
Titus looked at her. She was a shrew, that much was certain. She would have been beautiful, but five years in hell had destroyed her health and her looks. Her blond hair looked dirty and matted, and her dry skin was stretched tightly over her bones. It was hard to guess her age, but the lines in her face were those of an old woman. In spite of all this, her eyes burned with a fire entirely their own. Her insubordination was not directed against him he realised; she would not bow to anyone anymore. He guessed she was not too bothered about the remaining slaves, either. What she was after was revenge. Finally, he laughed. "All right, you have my attention. Joseph, get this woman a chair, we have much to discuss."   
  
He talked to her until the evening fell, making her describe the city and its vampire inhabitants in as much detail as she could manage, probing her for holes in her story, but she seemed sincere. Blind luck had given her a chance to escape, an act of outrageous daring had made it happen. She and the other girl were part of the "entertainment" for the festival. He did not press her to explain what exactly that meant, but apparently it had warranted better quarters and less scrupulous supervision. One day, when most of the vampires were asleep, and their keeper had turned his back, they had simply made a run for it.   
  
Her plan was sound, such as it was. He added detail in his mind as he discussed the city's layout with her. The battle would be decided inside the first courtyard: behind the main defences, and before the streets and corridors would force him to break up his troops. When the courtyard was theirs, they could simply sweep through the city, and free the slaves.   
  
"They're weak," she said, "but give them a stick and they'll fight. They would not be rewarded if they were loyal, and they might gain their freedom if they are not. Their decision is simple."   
  
Titus agreed. They, in themselves, would not win or lose him the city, but the mayhem caused by a city-wide rebellion might. As she told him more and more, he was amazed by her keen intellect and understanding of strategy. She had memorised just the right details, and knew the answer to almost all of his questions. That, in the end, was the only thing that still fuelled his suspicion.   
  
"You do realise," he told her as they parted, "that if you are lying, you will be the downfall of your entire race?"   
  
She stared at him, her face hard and humourless as a rock. "Good thing I'm not lying, then," she said, and left him without a greeting.

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Author's Notes:  
  
I'm not sure we don't 'clash'. Our styles I mean. I'm sure you can tell the difference. The next chapter will be Dave's again. He was very happy with his reviews, so, thank you all. Hope you're still enjoying this. Willie 


	3. 3

FALL OF DUMAH 3   
  
As Nosgoth had limped into its twilight, all of the empire had degenerated, mostly into mire and muck. Of all these lands, those belonging to Dumah had fared best. As Kain flitted through gaunt and sickly trees and over worn hills that had once been mountains, the land's soft movements, be they rippling grass or scuttling creature, ceased. Mist began to permeate the air, ice to coat the ground. Life withered away and was replaced by stoic and selfish rock, that stood in jutting solitude and dared any to try and find solace on their sharp-edged facade. As Kain flew deeper into the land, rain began to fall, freezing on its way to earth to land with all the grace of a rain of pebbles on the earth below and to pelt his bat-cloud with ceaseless yet futile fury.   
  
Vampire-built structures were all that had withstood the ravages of this harsh land, and they only through maintenance from their builders, the only beings who now occupied the territory. Kain saw beneath him towers and temples, the latter all to him, of course, the former occasionally manned by hunched shapes which glared with red-eyed hunger at the world around, hoping no doubt for some scrap of fresh blood to foolishly wander their way.   
  
Finally, Kain came upon the city of the Dumahim, a painstakingly built mass of defensible corridors and trapped courtyards, bridge upon bridge able to be raised to cut off a section of the city in case of attack. Or at least they would be, if anyone bothered to man the mechanisms anymore. The Dumahim had decided long ago that they had better things to see to, Kain had found, highest among them their own overinflated egos.   
  
He flew down to coalesce before the gates, tall blocks of stone that could only be moved by hand, or more precisely by claw, for no mortal would ever enter Dumah's home through these doors. At either side the gate was framed by high pillars of stone that were topped by angular formations that resembled horned helms, these the lookout towers standing temporarily and invitingly unmanned. Purple flags bearing Dumah's symbol whipped in the wind which drove the hail down upon the earth and ripped at Kain's cloak and hair as bats melted together and formed into them, a darkened wing blurring into crimson fabric as the wind caught at him. His eyes looked about momentarily at the arching walls which spread out from the pillars to engulf him, as if they thought themselves master of all who stood before them. But he was now ruled by none, and intended that state to remain forever.   
  
"What foolish creature goes there?" A hunched figure hissed, as one of the gate guards stomped onto its place at the top of one of the pillars, the horns atop them spreading out seemingly from its chest.   
  
The Dumahim had changed. They had once been fair of form, resembling their great creator to some degree, as he had come to resemble his one-time mentor, Vorador. Now they were hunched creatures that nonetheless stood as tall as the tallest of men, their flesh hardened to the texture and colour of iron that screeched and sparked when struck with steel. Red points now blazed from their sockets, at the head of elongated heads which bore fang-filled maws. Once, the Dumahim had been the masters of all weapons. Now they bore only their claws, for those could cleave flesh and cut steel, while their fists would shatter the strongest stone before bearing the slightest dent. Kain was not impressed.   
  
He reached out with a single claw and reached out with his blood, commanding the very forces of the world to obey and bending them effortlessly to his will. Bonds of telekenetic energy entrapped the vampire, paralyzing its limbs and plucking it from the stylised parapet, then drawing it inexorably and swiftly through the driving hail until its throat was held in Kain's claw, its maw mere inches from his face. Its pinprick eyes widened to fill its sockets with horror. "Your lord and master, child," Kain intoned. The vampire began to babble, its fangs clinking on each other as the words were caught, while its claws gestured frantically. Kain opened his claw, and the vampire was thrust away from him by a blast of such strength that when its back struck the stone doors, it seemed that they moved an inch. "And I have come to speak with my lieutenant," Kain went on in a casual tone that cut through the wind and hail with ease to reach the ears of those who had now gathered around the watchtowers.   
  
An instant passed, perhaps a heartbeat, and then words which had not been spoken for an outsider in nearly a century rang out with haunting clarity. "Open the gate!"   
  
Kain began to walk forward, wrenching the Dumahim to its feet as he approached its fallen form and depositing it at his side as the gates began to open before him, the process speeding up as those manning the mechanism realised they were going to impede their lord if they weren't quick about it. "You shall be my guide," Kain said with an ironic chuckle as he effortlessly outpaced the vampire, who staggered drunkenly after him, reaching to hold its back with one clawed hand and rubbing its head with the other.   
  
"Y... yes, my lord!" The Dumahim hissed out with some difficulty. "My name is Yacar... I think."   
  
The gate opened out onto a high-walled courtyard with arched alcoves, the roof deliberately left open to the elements, a flat statement that those within were not afraid of what Nosgoth might hold for them be it day or night. At the far end of the courtyard, a pair of oaken doors each twice Kain's size offered passage further into the structure. The ground before these doors was cut into square blocks, with interlocking circles engraved upon them and the diamond-shaped spaces thus created filled by crossed swords. From the very top of the walls which occupied Kain's flanks, the other three vampires that Dumah had placed in charge of the gate stared in open-mawed wonder at their lord and master, having not stood in his presence for their entire existence. Kain had not visited Dumah since the immediate aftermath of Raziel's demise, over three hundred years ago. Then, these walls had thronged with archers that stood to attention, ready at all times to strike down the enemies of the empire who might dare to deface the walls of Dumah's home with their presence, for this courtyard was designed with that intention in mind.   
  
"I will open the doors for you," Yacar said, scurrying forward, hunching down onto hands and feet to bound like an enormous ape ahead of Kain, but as he reached for them Kain gestured with one claw and they were thrown open with such force as to crack them when they struck the walls within, and Kain walked past the stunned vampire without comment.   
  
The next area was identical, but for the raised portcullis which stood at the other end, the secondary line of defense should any foe breach the main gate. The floor here was completely covered by ice, which crackled as Kain's clawed feet drove sticking points into it with unconscious ease, the Dumahim loping beside him with a similar gait. _Finally_, Kain thought, _this loathsome creature has shown some small amount of the divinity which is its heritage._   
  
Kain passed beneath the portcullis without pause or remark, Yacar now striding a little ahead of him, the grave injuries inflicted by being tossed so savagely against the gates already healed. A roof appeared over his head as he entered a corridor that ended in another portcullis, while a second corridor curved off to the right and led to the rooms of the gate guards, rooms now barely used, for they were fashioned centuries ago when the Dumahim still walked like men.   
  
"This way, my lord," Yacar said, half turning as it passed beneath the portcullis and bowing as it turned away again, its head swishing around as if catching up with its body, "master Dumah will likely be in his throne room now."   
  
They entered a wide and open courtyard, thronged with Dumahim shouting abuse at one another in their hissing voices and laughing at the fights which broke out among their number. Kain paused but a moment to survey the scene, looking solemnly over the mass of dark skinned creatures that bore no visible relation to him. They turned in drips and drabs to gaze with wonder upon their true master, and bowed their heads to him. The fledglings went to their knees, of course, their long heads scraping the icy stone and skin sticking to it. The elders, filled to bursting with pride and arrogance, thought of Kain as less than he once was, and would no more bow to him than they would to any of their kin. Kain smiled, finding the thought of these pompous creatures skewered and motionless on the cold stone of their own home to be an amusing one indeed. Once, when they were creatures worthy of his blood, there would never have been so many gathered in this place. Kain remembered passing this way and meeting no Dumahim in the halls at all, for they were manning the posts, ever-vigilantly watching for invaders. Now, like the rightly forgotten empires of millenia past, they left their walls barren, arrogantly sure that nobody would ever dare to take their offering.   
  
Kain strode on, outpacing Yacar in moments as he walked down a short corridor that opened out onto a bridge of blue iron, a series of stone platforms erected above, at the top of which lay the now unmanned device which would raise or lower the bridge below. A hulking Dumahim that stood over a foot taller than Kain despite its hunch loped onto the bridge from the other end, and walked past him without a second glance. How easy it would have been for Kain to draw the soul reaver and annihilate the creature at that very moment, to deliver its rightful punishment. But in truth, _that_ was coming with the Human invaders. If they failed, as Kain thought that perhaps they might with this warning, then he would speak with that creature and remind it of its place.   
  
They moved from the bridge to a corridor which turned into another junction point, with an area of iron gating occupying the middle ground in which there was contained a tall obelisk of dark stone, and inlaid upon it there were hundreds of runes written in the classical Nosgothian blood script, runes which read out 'the litany of Kain'. These were the various sutras and prayers that should be said in His name each day and night by the devoted, and the doctrine by which he had lived his life and forged the empire. Now it stood abandoned and gathering dust, ignored by the very creatures who had once followed it most intently.   
  
Kain paused, and folded his arms across his chest, turning his head momentarily to see the multiple engravings of Dumah's clan symbol upon the walls, each so meticulously attended to that it seemed as if it had been hewn only this morning by the finest of stonecutters.   
  
"Is there something the matter, my lord?" Yacar asked.   
  
"I find it curious that this obelisk gathers dust, fledgling. Have you an explanation for this oddity?" Kain asked darkly.   
  
Yacar shrugged, glancing at it vaguely. "The obelisk is nothing more than a part of the city, my lord. Master Dumah believes we should pay more interest to those matters which benefit the clan than those which are merely curiousities of architecture."   
  
"And do you find nothing about this particular 'curiousity' which is worthy of observation, fledgling?" He asked, expression becoming stormy and brow furrowing deeply. Yacar began to look ill at ease. "Is there nothing here that your _master_ believes is worthy of notice or study?"   
  
Yacar looked at the obelisk as if seeing it for the first time. It leant forwards, then walked to the nearest stretch of gate and peered between two of the bars as if looking into darkness, then looked at Kain, its pinprick eyes a little wider, but no other noticeable change upon its face. "I see nothing, my lord," Yacar hissed, the words scraping and sibilant, yet carrying a small hint of embarassment. "Just a four sided rock with squiggles on it."   
  
And then, Kain understood. "Can you _read_ those 'squiggles', fledgling?"   
  
"Read them?" Yacar exclaimed as if Kain was suggesting he fly to the sun.   
  
"Enough! Take me to your master, immediately," Kain snapped, already having strode past the fledgling and begun his path down the long corridor that led to Dumah's throne room. Yacar ran to catch up, rising up out of all fours as he drew up to Kain's side, and together they came to the heavy iron doors which stood fifteen feet high and bore in their centre, spread across the two to be split asunder when they were opened, a man-high engraving of the clan's symbol. As Yacar moved forward to open them, Kain pre-empted it with a contemptuous gesture and a curl of his lip, and the doors were pulled forward to slam against the walls of the corridor, nearly crushing Yacar as they did.   
  
And there in the distance, sat upon his throne with the ease of one who sat there for long hours each day, was Dumah.   
  
Had Kain not already witnessed how the coming days would play out, he would perhaps have been shocked to see his lieutenant today, for Dumah was unrecognisable from the vampire, and indeed the man, he had once been. Where once he had stood a little above Kain's height, now he towered over him by a number of feet. Where once his skin had been white like the other lieutenants', now it was hardened into a dark blue colour and visibly dissected into recognisable 'plates', making it appear that he was melded into a suit of armour. This impression was if anything magnified by the distortions of his head, which appeared now to be some unholy helm from which two deep points of crimson light glinted from above a fanged mouth. But unlike his spawn, Dumah still stood tall and strong, a walking pillar that defied any attempt to topple it, an embodiment of the empire's strength. It suddenly occurred to Kain, now, seeing Dumah with his own eyes after so long, how utterly appropriate it was for this fate to befall _him_ over any of the others.   
  
A step beyond the threshold of the doors took Kain onto a carpet of the deepest crimson, into which were woven stylised drops of dark blood, the angles sharpened to make them seem almost as diamonds. Beginning on the walls at either side of the door, a band of white ran dissected the glazed stone slabs and bore long lines of writing in old blood script, reading the words 'herein sits Dumah, Lord of War' over and over again, as if a mantra to be recited. Where the lines met, the throne itself began, its lines and curves designed to resemble a suit of armour for a creature of man size. The high back seemed as if a guard to protect against beheading strokes from the rear. The raised arms of the chair, with their subtle lower alcoves where the arms of the lord could rest more comfortably, seemed the beginning of shoulder pads which then curved out in stony wedges. These framed stained glass of whites and purples refracted the light which was given out by the four braziers, which were suspended from the roof by lengths of heavy chain. Immediately behind the throne and to either side were three vertically emphasised stained glass windows, the latter pair also blazing purple and white, the former individual bearing greens of varying hues which grandly offset the blazing yellow and red disc which reminded Kain of a powerful sunset, in which was suspended the darkness of the Dumahim clan symbol.   
  
In the room's rounded corners, to the throne's far left and right, stood two gigantic statues, which dwarfed Dumah even in his exalted state, horned monsters which each bore a stave -- the weapon which was once the signature of clan Dumah. These two statues were carved centuries ago, when two creatures that resembled these statues exactly wandered from the mountains and pillaged the then-plentiful Human cattle that Dumah had called his own and shattered any vampires sent against them; until Dumah had slain them both with his bare claws. Those had been gentler times, Kain thought. Slightly.   
  
Kain strode towards the throne, occupying the exact center of the carpet, his steps filling each drop of blood as he passed it. Yacar loped beside him, hanging back slightly, now, as it found itself in the presence of _both_ of its masters, and began to truly realise its own insignificance in this meeting. Dumah's helm-like head tilted forward slightly as Kain approached, then his burning eyes flared slightly, and he leant forward with a sound like rattling chainmail. "So," he said, his voice loud and echoing unnaturally from his plated throat, "the Lord of Nosgoth comes before me once again. To what, pray tell, do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" He asked, his tone bordering that of a deep and thunderous sneer.   
  
"I thought perhaps to invade," Kain said casually, "but upon seeing the defences of your walls I realised the task would be too easy, and so instead I deemed to parley with you."   
  
Dumah's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. He sat back in his throne again, then frowned, and let out a long, hollow laugh, throwing his head back and baring his throat as if daring Kain to strike for it. "Oh, my lord, your sense of humour is unchanged, I see! In a way it is pleasing to discover that there is something in our empire which remains so."   
  
"_My_ empire, Dumah," Kain said flatly, wondering inwardly if in his youth he had ever resembled this arrogant and pompous fool.   
  
Dumah looked upon Kain again, a thin smile prickling the edges of his plate-armour lips. "Of course, master. What else could I have meant? Leave us, Yacar, there is a private reunion to be had today," Dumah said, gesturing with an arm as thick around as the fledgling's torso and, Kain noticed, shaking loose no small amount of dust from the surface of his skin. He could not help but smile at that. In the past, he himself had risen from meditation, only to discover the revolution of a week had passed, and that his body had become nearly obscured by dirt from the air. "Do not concern yourself with the doors," Dumah said, and gestured. There was the sound of groaning iron, and then a heavy booming noise as the doors closed.   
  
"I see your powers have grown, Dumah," Kain observed quietly.   
  
"And I see that yours have not, Kain," Dumah replied, barely containing the contempt in his voice. "How strange it is that while your children change and grow like the turning seasons, you remain static and turgid! After all these centuries, after feeling my _true_ power, I begin to wonder about your true motives for casting my brother into the abyss. Is it because, truly, you looked upon him and realised that you were inferior?"   
  
Kain did not react visibly, but internally he began to seeth. To hear his impudent offspring speak in such tones was enough to make his blood boil, and his claws to twitch in readiness of clasping the Soul Reaver's hilt. But he was older, now. And wiser. "And if a mountain remained the same after twenty thousand years, through thunder and calamity, would you look also upon its state as weakness? As for yourself, do not mistake my compliment. You are not my equal."   
  
Dumah let out a rasping laugh. "Oh, no, Kain. No, I am _not_ your equal," he laughed, and while the words went unsaid, Kain knew what Dumah would have said. "But surely," Dumah said, his laugh stopping suddenly, abruptly, without a hint of its ever existing, "you must look upon me and be proud? Have I not ascended far above what your other mewling brats are capable of? Am I not by far the greatest embodiment of those very values you instilled into us at our rebirths?" Dumah asked, gesturing at himself in quite the most narcissistic manner, and Kain found himself imagining, with a smile, Dumah standing before a mirror and polishing himself.   
  
"In what manner do you embody those values, Dumah? Is it in the manner of your strength, which you pair so well with your stupidity and arrogance, or is it in your wordplay?" Kain asked with a cruel half-smile, born from the sure knowledge of Dumah's approaching fate. Suddenly, he wondered if his intended plan was worth carrying out.   
  
"You dare!" Dumah roared, and slammed his hands against the arms of his throne, once over-sized but now so small in comparison to his bulk. The impact was such that it rose him to his feet to tower over his lord, his eyes blazing with infernal fury and mouth opened in a snarl... until he saw to where Kain's right hand had drifted.   
  
There was no other change in Kain's posture, really. He still stood with his left arm folded into his crimson shawl. But his right now firmly gripped the hilt of the Soul Reaver, the skull-embossed hilt prominently visible over his left shoulder, the empty eyes carrying a promise to any who looked upon them. Dumah saw the blade. He straightened up, then shook his arms to a sound like that of a hundred suits of armour crashing into one another as his trunk-like muscles shook, and finally he sat back down in his throne, as regal and calm as he could ever be. "I see you still favour your toys over your own power, Kain," Dumah hissed contemptuously.   
  
"I see no need to flaunt my powers, when I have a tool that more than adequately represents them," Kain replied softly, taking his hand from the blade and crossing it across his chest once more.   
  
"And I wonder, is that the true story of The Raising of The Six?" Dumah mused, raising one hand to rest on his chin and his massive body turning to lean against one side of the throne. "Did the great lord Kain, in looking upon the lands of Nosgoth, see his own weakness and so create fitting _tools_ with which to supplement his meagre power?" Dumah taunted.   
  
"Your power comes from mine, Dumah," Kain pointed out. "Any insult you deliver to me is one you deliver to yourself."   
  
"No!" Dumah stated, pointing accusatorily. "In the beginning, certainly, but look upon me now and tell me that I am your son! Tell me this, _father_," Dumah said, his voice rattling in his throat unpleasantly, as if a mighty sword being drawn from its sheath, "in what way do we resemble one another? By what manner would any observer look upon us and see that we are related in any way?" Kain smiled, and a laugh rocked his shoulders slightly. "Answer me!" Dumah roared, his tone absolutely expecting an answer and eyes blazing once again.   
  
"How else, my son, but in temperament?" Kain said, making a casual gesture with his hand.   
  
Dumah's red eyes suddenly softened, and his expression became thunderstruck. He reared back in his throne, and thought about it for a moment. Then he smiled. And then he laughed. He laughed long and loud, his twisted voice echoing off the stone walls of the room and drowning out his master and father's soft, ironic chuckle. Kain found, having spoken the words, that it was true. More so than any other of his lieutenants, Dumah's fiery temperament and perhaps misplaced self-confidence reminded him of himself. But unlike Dumah, Kain intended to live to learn from the mistakes of his life.   
  
Finally, the mirth left Dumah, ending as suddenly as his earlier laugh, stopping as though the one issuing the noise had been decapitated. Dumah looked upon Kain again, and settled back into his throne. "So, master. What brings you out to the Northern Wastes to speak to your little Dumah?" He asked, then chuckled softly.   
  
"I bear a warning, child," Kain said, feeling a slighty heaviness within as he finally reached the grim intention of his visit. "A warning against your rapidly approaching demise."   
  
"Oh?" Dumah asked, his voice more curious than surprised. "And from what quarter does this demise come from, father?"   
  
"From a group of Humans that have struck out from their isolated citadel," Kain said. He was not surprised by Dumah's reaction.   
  
The great leader of clan Dumah first leant forwards as if straining to hear, then his eyes widened, and then another laugh echoed out through the room. "Humans?" Dumah exclaimed, incredulous. "And what are they to do, oh father? Beat upon my feet with pebbles? Or, or are they to knock politely on my gates of stone so that they can actually get _inside_ in the first place? Or perhaps they bring with them the ancient weapon that the accursed Sarafan once used to aid their quest to slaughter our kind? Oh, no, even better! Each of them bears a Soul Reaver!" Dumah exclaimed, pointing with a shaking finger which was as wide as Kain's hand, at the Soul Reaver, then bursting out into laughter, his whole frame shaking with it, and it seemed that an entire company of armoured men were falling into a rocky crevice, as Dumah's steely skin scraped sparks off his stone throne. Finally, his mirth subsided, and Dumah rested back in his throne. "Oh, father, how terribly cutting is your sense of humour. Tell me, honestly, why _did_ you come here? You have visited none of us for centuries, as I understand it."   
  
Kain fixed his lieutenant with an even stare. "I speak the truth, Dumah, and I am not inclined to waste my breath on false warnings."   
  
Dumah chuckled. "Oh, how sad it is, father. Finally I see things as they truly are," he said, leaning forward to regard his master with an amazed expression. "The centuries, Kain, have addled your mind and rendered you witless! Go! Walk among my clan and tell me then how any of the mortal scum might harm us! We, whose skin turns the blade and snaps the lance! We, who think nothing of snow and rain, who laugh at all but the gravest of threats to our being! I, who stands undefeated in battle for four hundred years, who has grown both in stature and commensurately in power!" Dumah shouted, gesticulating broadly and proudly as he spoke of his great clan, his mighty arms sweeping high, almost reaching the yellow and red engraving of his clan symbol that occupied the centre of the stained glass window behind him. "And then," Dumah hissed, "we have the _humans_. Rag-tag remnants of those fools who have turned away from the empire and fled from their lords to cower in that pathetic citadel to the west, who fight with swords upon which our sharp eyes can _see_ the rust that was scraped from them merely hours before battle, who fight with weapons they stole from my incompetent brother Melchiah. They cower in terror from Rahab's raiders, who drag their men and women into the rivers and drink them dry to spit their worthless corpses out as a warning to them, and they flee at the mere mention of my name! _They_ will harm _me_?" Dumah roared, his voice swelling with indignation and his fist striking his chest as if it were a gong, and letting out a grinding slither as his claws were raked across his chest.   
  
There was silence then, for a few moments, as servant and master, son and father, looked into each other's eyes. One looked in challenge, one in the calm certainty of sure knowledge. One felt insulted merely to hear such a ludicrous suggestion, the other felt irritatingly certain that his coming here was, in the end, a waste of his precious time.   
  
It was Dumah who finally broke the silence. "Leave this place, Kain. Go to your mountain sanctuary if you fear the pathetic remnants of the Human's resistance, and cower there with the broken relics of the past! If they come, they will die. Or have you some other decree for their fate?"   
  
"No," Kain replied evenly, "but should they fail, Dumah, then we shall speak again, and you may not be well pleased by the outcome of our conversation. For now, take heed. Be wary of your revels, lest they usher in your demise." So saying, Kain raised his arms and disappeared in a glow of emerald energy.   
  
Dumah lay back in his throne, his lips curling in a sneer as he considered how weak his one-time master had become. It was almost an insult to think that he had ever served that creature, and that he still had to pay lip service to his Soul Reaver. Dumah gestured at the double doors and they were opened by the hard push of his telekenetic powers. The fledgling Yacar was revealed, now wearing an expression of the utmost embarassment. Dumah smiled. "Bring me my goblet, and blood. And make double preparations for the festival! It seems we have more to celebrate than I had originally believed."   
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I took a bit of creative licence on the Dumahim, as anyone who's played SR1 will know that they DON'T run like apes and they're not quite as large as I suggest they are. I think I might also have overplayed how big Dumah is, but then the last time I fought him I remember being Raziel and having endless fun trying to scratch my name into his shins so maybe not.   
  
A question or two for my reviewers (no prizes for correct answers, unfortunately. Well, maybe zen hugs):   
  
1. Does Dumah come across as impressive, and are his various rants colourful and/or amusing? (I personally love the comment about the vampire hunters all bearing Soul Reavers)   
  
2. Do you believe that the hunters you know are coming after him have a chance?   
  
3. Do you think I characterised Kain well?   
  
4. For that matter, do you think I characterised Dumah well? (I suppose it's hard since he gets three spoken lines of dialogue in SR1, one of which is 'ARGH', but I thought they were very well chosen lines!)   
  
5. Is the description of the Dumah clan home nice and vivid and other words which might sound like a character from a popular roleplaying series? (sub-question: Do any of you know what I'm talking about here?)   
  
Thanks for reading, and any additional time you take out to review. 


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